


When Goldfish Are Silver

by HomicidalHunter



Category: Mystrade - Fandom, Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, Family, Fluff, Food Disorder Mention, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock Subtext - Freeform, M/M, Romance, Sexual Assault Mention, Smut, Violence, non-con elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-24
Updated: 2015-03-03
Packaged: 2018-03-10 04:01:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3275921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HomicidalHunter/pseuds/HomicidalHunter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft had never expected to find someone he actually enjoyed sharing time with. When a simple rendezvous to discuss Sherlock turns into an eventful evening that leads to Detective Inspector Lestrade asking him out on a date, all of that changes. </p>
<p>But when an old enemy resurfaces, Mycroft realizes that a happy ending with the silver-haired Detective might not happen. His dreams turn into nightmares, and he has to fight to save the only person he's ever truly connected with.</p>
<p>Whether or not he'll succeed depends on his ability to accept the fact that he can't do it alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Unexpected Interest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'm not saying that you have to tell me your bloody birthday. I'm just asking if you're single."

Mycroft walked over to the small table placed in the far corner of the restaurant and shrugged his coat off, neatly draping it over one of the chairs before sitting down and pulling his mobile phone out from the front pocket of his trousers, turning the small device on and holding it up to read the message displayed on the bright screen.

_On my way._

It was from Greg. Mycroft sighed, and then stuffed the phone back into his pocket, shifting in his seat as he picked up the menu and flipped it over, looking for the list of beverages that the restaurant served. As if on cue, a young waitress materialized, pulling out a small notepad and pen as she asked him what he would like to drink. The older Holmes looked up at the young blonde, gave the list one more glance, and then returned his gaze back to the woman.

"An Earl Grey tea would be adequate," He said as he handed the menu to her. She nodded, wrote the order down, took the menu from him, and then walked off without another word. Mycroft sat back in his seat and took a moment to look around, examining the quiet room full of people before him. Admittedly, it was a rather pleasant atmosphere. He didn't particularly enjoy cheap food, of course, but the area was decorated nicely, and the staff seemed tolerable. Besides, he knew that Detective Inspector Lestrade couldn't afford anywhere much more expensive on his mediocre salary.

"Hey," Said a familiar voice. Mycroft craned his neck around to find the Detective Inspector walking towards him, red-faced and covered in snow.

"Are you alright?" Mycroft asked after seeing that the man's lips appeared to be a bluish colour. Greg chuckled softly, sitting down without bothering to take his coat off.

"I'm fine," He said, "Sorry I'm late. My car broke down, so I had to walk."

Mycroft looked at him as if he were crazy, sitting back and widening his eyes in disbelief.

" _In this weathe_ r?" He asked. He watched as Greg rubbed his hands together and blew warm air into them, shivering. The silver-haired man nodded, and then folded his arms over his chest. Mycroft grunted, shaking his head.

"I could have had someone pick you up," He replied. Before Greg had a chance to respond, the waitress reappeared, handing a cup of tea to Mycroft before turning her attention to his new guest.

"Can I get you anything, sir?"

Greg didn't even bother to look at the Menu.

"Something hot," He said, "Cocoa, maybe?"

She nodded, and then left again. Greg watched her walk away, and then slowly dragged his gaze back to Mycroft, who was just staring at him. The two of them shared a brief moment of silence, and then Greg finally took his coat off, hanging it from his chair. He brushed the snow out of his hair, and then dropped his arms, shivering again. Mycroft watched with intrigue, somewhat amused by his choice to walk seven blocks in a blizzard.

"Well," The older Holmes finally spoke up, "I suppose we should get down to business."

He sat forward in his seat as Greg nodded. 

"Sounds fair," The Detective Inspector added. He licked the frost off of his lips, and then sniffled as he sat forward. He crossed his arms on the sleek surface of the table in front of him.

"There isn't much to tell you, though, Mycroft. I mean, I saw you two weeks ago. Other than the usual , Sherlock doesn't do much. Especially since the baby. Him and John are stuck caring for the thing, and John has an actual job that requires him to work certain hours, so he ends up minding the girl, and he still somehow manages to work cases..."

"Of course," Mycroft said, "I understand. But I've set up these meetings for a reason."

"Yeah, yeah..." Greg muttered, "I know..."

"A simple update will suffice," Mycroft replied. Greg stared at him for a moment, and then nodded.

"Well," He said as he leaned back in his seat, "Like I said...there's not much to tell. I mean, the two of them have had it rough since Mary passed, but they seem to be getting used to the new routine."

Mycroft picked his tea up and took a sip, sitting it down next to Greg's large mug of cocoa as he swallowed.

"That's good," He said, "What about the...er..."

"The kid?" Greg asked. Mycroft nodded.

"Well, she's not too bad off. She's the cutest little thing," Greg said with a grin, "And John is a great dad. So is Sherlock, actually."

"Oh?"

"Yeah," Greg chuckled, "You should see him with her. He absolutely _adores_ her. It's weird, really. I never quite saw him as the type to enjoy children. But he's magnificent with Maggie. It's as if she's his own."

"Maggie? I thought they had decided on Penelope."

"Yeah," Greg said, "But after losing Mary, John decided on Margaret. Apparently it was his mother's name."

"Middle name, technically."

Greg gave him a weird look, but shrugged it off, deciding not to ask how he knew that.

"Anyways," He said, "The two of them-- Wait a minute. You didn't even know her name? Please don't tell me you've never even met the kid."

Mycroft meant to grab his tea, but accidentally grabbed Greg's mug instead. 

"I've been busy," He said, "Haven't had the time."

Greg gave him a look of disbelief, rolling his eyes. 

"Mycroft, the girl's almost three months old. And practically you're niece."

"There is no relation," Mycroft retorted. He took a drink, and then recoiled, giving the mug in his hands a weird look as he smacked his lips in disgust. The sweet, thick taste of cocoa had taken him by surprise.

"That's mine," Greg said with a chuckle. Mycroft grimaced at the large mug in his hand, nodding in response. He put the mug down, and then quickly snatched his own drink up, hastily chugging its lukewarm contents down in an attempt to rid his mouth of the creamy artificial flavor assaulting his taste buds.

"Yes it is," Mycroft said as he finished off his tea. He smacked the small cup down on the table, and then pushed it aside, taking a deep breath as he brought his attention back to the man seated before him.

"Well," Greg said as he pulled his mug towards himself, "That didn't look pleasant."

"I simply can't comprehend how you could possibly have penchant for such a _distasteful_ beverage."

Greg cocked an eyebrow and studied him as he took a drink of the supposedly unbearable liquid. He looked down at the spiral of thick cream slowly melting into his cocoa, and then sat the mug down again, shrugging his shoulders.

"S'pose I'd rather fancy a cup of coffee," He said, "But I've had about six already."

Mycroft gave him a look of interest, surprised to hear so.

"Don't think my heart can handle much more at my age," Greg said with a chuckle. He sat back and folded one leg over the other, then brought a hand up to cover his mouth as he coughed. He cleared his throat, scratched the edge of his stubbled jawline, and then dropped his hand into his lap and sighed.

"Speaking of which," He said, "Sherlock's started smoking again. I mean, I suppose it's to be expected. He's been on and off for almost five years, and at least it's not heroine..."

"Yes," Mycroft agreed, "It could be worse."

"He's surprisingly responsible with it around the baby. Oh, and I think something might be going on. I mean, I've always had my suspicions, but Sherlock's a bit weird, y'know... so it's hard to tell. John adamantly claims he isn't gay, though."

"John has had male partners in the past," Mycroft said unexpectedly. Greg raised his brow and gave the older Holmes an intrigued look.

"Wait, _really_?"

Mycroft suddenly diverted his gaze, wondering if perhaps he shouldn't have shared that bit of information.

"That...probably shouldn't be discussed any further."

"Oh, _c'mon_..." Greg sat forward in his seat and grinned, compelling him to tell more. He picked up his cocoa and took a drink, silently waiting as Mycroft stared down at his empty cup. There was an awkward silence for a few minutes, and then Mycroft sat up, clearing his throat.

"It really isn't my place," Mycroft said after a while.

"Bollocks. _I'm_ not gonna tell anyone. Besides, you and I both know the two of 'em don't try very hard to hide it."

Mycroft looked up at him, contemplating whether or not to answer. He silently mulled it over for a moment, and then took a deep breath.

"There is nothing going on _that I am aware of_ ,"  He finally said, "But it isn't of importance."

Greg rolled his eyes, but accepted the answer for what it was worth. He chuckled lightly, relaxed, and then finished off his cocoa, sitting the mug down and scooting aside just as Mycroft had after finishing his tea. He glanced around to see if the waitress was nearby, but she was nowhere to be seen, so he slowly dragged his gaze back to Mycroft.

"What about you?" He calmly asked, trying not to seem to blunt about it.

"What about me?" Mycroft asked, raising an eyebrow. Greg shrugged.

"I dunno," He said, "Do you... _see someone_?"

Mycroft furrowed his brow.

"What do you mean?"

"Are you in a relationship?"

"I don't discuss my personal affairs," Mycroft replied in a matter-of-fact tone.

"Why?"

"Because, frankly, I see no point."

"Right," Greg said, "But we're here to talk, aren't we?"

"To discuss my brother. Not for small talk. Besides, it isn't really any of your business what I do in my free time."

"Christ," Greg said, "It was just a question."

Mycroft studied him for a moment, and then frowned, looking down at his lap as he apologized.

"I didn't mean to be rude," He said, "I just prefer not to discuss it."

"I get it, mate. It's just that we meet twice a month to talk about Sherlock, but I don't even know your bloody birthday."

"You want to know my birthday?" Mycroft asked, suddenly feeling a bit confused about the direction the conversation was heading. He gave Greg a quizzical look, and was rewarded by a soft laughter.

"That's not what I mean," Greg said, "It's an expression. I'm just trying to say that we've known each other for years, and never once have you so much as shared a personal detail with me. I'm sure you've read every single material involving anything even remotely related to me, so you probably know everything about me. But I don't know anything about you, and it just seems odd."

Mycroft mulled this over in his head, and then looked up at him again.

"Does that really bother you?"

"I'm not saying I'm bothered by it. Well, _yes_ , actually...It _is_ a bit unfair for a bloke to know everything about me when I don't know anything about him."

"I see your point, I suppose, but I don't understand why the date of my birth is relevant."

"I'm not saying that you have to tell me your bloody  _birthday_. I'm just asking if you're single."

"Why?"

"Are you?"

Mycroft stared at him, and he stared back. The two of them sat in a silent stalemate for a few seconds, and then the older Holmes gave in, letting out a sigh.

"You're asking if I'm currently romanticly involved with anyone?"

" _Yes_."

"No," Mycroft said, "I'm not."

This of course, recieved an eager smirk. Greg glanced over at the nearby clock hanging on the wall, and then nervously shifted his weight, uncrossing his legs. He leaned forward and clasped his hands together on the table, clearing his throat as he silently ruminated on how to present his proposition. After a brief inept moment of fumbling with words, he finally spat out his thought.

"Would you want to grab a pint with me, then?"

It took Mycroft a moment to register the implication. After an agonizingly suspenseful minute had passed, Greg sat back in his seat and chuckled awkwardly, mumbling something inaudible to himself. Mycroft furrowed his brow and fixated on him, wondering if his offer was some sort of joke that he didn't comprehend.

"Are you asking me on a date?" He asked. Greg quickly looked up at him, relieved to finally have a response-- albeit short of an actual answer.

"Well, I've _also_ had male partners," He replied with a sly grin, "And I would like to discuss something other than your brother for once."

"I...well..."

The older Holmes considered his next words very carefully. He could feel the blush rising into his cheeks, and he didn't really know how to react. He was mildly surprised that Greg had the audacity to ask, and even more taken aback by the fact that the silver-haired man found him attractive.

Admittedly, he did find Greg quite handsome...

"Mycroft?"

"Yes?"

" _Yes_? As in yes to the date, or...?"

Mycroft stared at him for a few seconds, and then sighed.

"I'm flattered, Gregory, but I'm quite busy, and..."

"It's just a drink," Greg said, "And besides, you have a point. You're always busy, so why not take the night off for once?"

 

* * *

 

 Mycroft's younger colleague walked into his office holding a thick manila folder full of government files. She quietly strutted up to his desk, sat the paperwork down next to his partially-opened laptop, and then turned to leave without saying anything. Before she had the chance to get very far, Mycroft looked up and interrupted her, asking what she had on her schedule for the rest of the day. 

The curvy brunette turned back around and gave him a considerate look, mentally going over her plans.

"Nothing of importance," She noted. Mycroft nodded in response, pushing his chair back so that he could open the top drawer of his desk. Anthea patiently watched as he plucked a stack of envelopes out of the drawer, pulling off the rubber band holding them together, and sorting through them until finding the specific one that he needed. He tossed the necessary envelope next to his laptop, and then wrapped the band around the needless stack of remaining letters and stuffed them back into his desk, pushing the drawer shut before he scoot back in. He held the carefully selected envelope up, and his subordinate stepped forward, taking it from him without hesitation.

"I need that mailed to the ambassador by the weekend," Mycroft declared. She flipped the white piece of paper over to examine the address neatly scrawled on the front of it, and then nodded her head.

"Of course," She said as she turned to leave. Mycroft returned his attention back to the paperwork he had been focusing on when she had initially walked in. He grabbed a pen from the cup full of various utensils next to the silver lamp in one corner of his desk, and then signed the report, scribbling his full name on a thin line at the bottom of the page. 

"Mr. Holmes."

He placed the paper into the basket in the corner opposite of his lamp, and then looked up to find that Anthea had stopped in the doorway. She was giving him a curious look.

"I just received your invitation to Officer Platwell's annual gala," She said, "Should I reply with the usual?"

Mycroft contemplated the question for a brief moment, and then gently shook his head, sitting back in his plush office chair as he tugged at his rolled-up sleeves. He combed through his thinning ginger hair with one hand, and then folded his arms over his chest.

"Allow me to check my schedule," He said, "I'm not sure if I'll be able to attend this year."

"Right," She said, "And a Gregory Lestrade phoned your mobile about an hour ago, wanting to make sure that you still planned to show up for your date tonight." 

Mycroft furrowed his brow.

"I didn't..."

"I know you didn't. But I researched him, and-- after reviewing his information-- decided that he would be a suitable companion, and sent him a message inviting him out to dinner tonight at nine. I've cleared your schedule, so you won't have to worry about any interference."

Mycroft's eyes widened dramaticly.

" _ **You what?**_ "

"He is a rather attractive man," She said, "And he's around your age. He doesn't have much on his record except for a DUI at the age of twenty-two, and he works for Scotland Yard. Plus, he's Recently divorced, which means--"

"I'm well aware of his status!" Mycroft exclaimed.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading:) No guarantee on fast updates, but there are more chapters to come. Hope you enjoy so far!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Do you like whiskey?" He asked.

Mycroft turned the shower off and pushed the shower door open, stepping out as a gust of steam escaped the enclosement. He grabbed the towel hanging from the silver rack bolted next to the shower, wrapped the plush blue fabric around his waist, and then pushed the dripping auburn tendrils of hair out of his face before proceeding to make his way over to the sink.

He used a hand to wipe the condensation off of the mirror set into the wall above the pristine porcelain bowl, gave his profile a quick examination, and then walked over to the door and pulled it open. He walked out, closed the door behind him, and then crossed his bedroom, walking over to his closet door and sliding it aside before stepping into the abnormally large space and looking around at the vast assortment of suits and tuxedos held within.

He plucked one of the suits off of the rack-- A black jacket and trousers, accompanied by a white shirt-- and then turned around and snatched a dark blue tie off of one of the hooks lining the wall. He grabbed a matching pocket protector, and then walked out of the closet and neatly laid the clothes down on his bed before unwrapping the towel from around his waist and using it to dry his hair.

As soon as he tossed the damp towel aside, the doorbell rang, and a melody of soft chimes echoed through the large house. Mycroft frowned in confusion, and then picked the towel back up and wrapped it around his waist once more, making his way out of the bedroom and down the hall, into the foyer. He pushed aside the curtiain draped over the long window next to his door and peeked outside, meeting gazes with Anthea. The curvy brunette smiled, and then gestured towards the door, silently asking him to allow her inside.

Mycroft squinted at her, and then stepped back from the window, giving the front door a baffled look as he wondered what on earth his colleague was doing on his doorstep so late in the evening. He stood there and mulled it over for a few seconds, then turned his attention to the security system-- which was a simple touch-screen set into the wall on his right-- and input his security code. The screen made a small beep, and then his front door unlocked.

He grabbed the door handle and pulled the thick slab of wood into the foyer, peeking out from behind it as he tried his best to keep his half-naked body hidden.

 "Anthea," He said in a neutral tone, "What are you doing here?"

"I came to help," She said with a knowing grin. He furrowed his brow and studied her closely. 

"Help with... _what_?" 

Anthea's jaw rotated mechanically as she chewed on a piece of gum. The minty smell was strong enough for Mycroft to sense. He glanced down at her glossy lips, and then looked back up at her soft brown eyes, calculating. 

"May I come in, sir?" 

"No," Mycroft replied, "How did you even get my address?" 

"It isn't that difficult to look up a man's address," Anthea replied with a proud smirk. Mycroft narrowed his eyes at her, still curious as to what exactly had brought her to his house. She had already changed from her usual work attire and into a casual dress and slip-ons, so she wasn't there regarding anything to do with government business... 

"I'm not just any man," Mycroft replied, "How did you find me?" 

"Don't be silly, Mr. Holmes. You and I both know it's relatively easy to trace someone's mobile phone if you have the necessary components and the proper training. You didn't hire me just for my good looks, remember?" 

Mycroft simply stared at her, and she decided to invite herself in. She squeezed past him, and he spun around. 

"Anthea, you can _not_ just--" 

She scanned his half-naked figure from head to toe, and then locked gazes with him and grinned flirtatiously. 

"Well, well..." She said, "If only you weren't gay..." 

Mycroft's face turned bright red, and he gave her a premonitory glare. She simply chuckled in response, turning and making her way down the hall as she searched for his bedroom. 

"I came to make sure you look proper for tonight," She said, "So where's your room?" 

" _Get out of my house_!" 

"Ah," She said as she discovered the half-open door leading into a room with a king-sized bed in it. She walked in without hesitation, and Mycroft quickly persued, trying his best to keep the towel around his waist as he followed the unwanted guest into his bedroom. 

"I am more than capable of dressing myself!" He shouted as he walked into his room. Anthea looked down at the clothes he had laid out on his créme-coloured comforter, and then shook her head in disappointment. 

"No," She said, "You shouldn't wear such a fomal suit." 

"What?" Mycroft asked, "Why?" 

She turned around to face him. 

"It's not a dinner with the queen," She said, "It's just a simple evening with a man who's interested in you. There's no need to impress him." 

"I do want to impress him," Mycroft flatly replied. 

"Yes," Anthea said, "You want to impress him, but you _don't_ want to seem like a show-off." 

Mycroft considered this for a moment, and then nodded. 

"I suppose you have a point." 

Anthea looked over at his closet, and then pointed at it. 

"Is this your closet?" She asked as she walked over to the half-open door and stepped into the unnecessarily large space where Mycroft kept all of his outfits cachéd. Mycroft rolled his eyes, and then let out an exasperated sigh and followed her.

"Could you at least allow me to put something on, first?"

"One minute," She said. Mycroft leaned against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest, dropping his head back against the wall as he closed his eyes and momentarily pretended that she wasn't there. A few minutes later, Anthea came out from the closet, holding up a pair of black trousers and a pale blue shirt. Mycroft looked down at the outfit, and then up to her, cocking an eyebrow. 

"This color really accents your eyes," She said as she held the shirt up to compare it with his eye color. Mycroft snatched the shirt out of her hand, took the trousers from her, and then told her to leave. 

" _Thank you for your assistance_ ," He snapped, " _Now kindly get out of my house_." 

"Go try it on," She said with an encouraging nudge, "I want to see how it looks." 

" _I swear to._.."

 "Just do it."

 Mycroft rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to protest, but-- after coming to the conclusion that she definitely didn't plan on leaving-- reluctantly trudged across the room, pulling the bathroom door open, and then stepping into the bathroom and closing the door behind him. Anthea picked up the suit that he had laid out on the bed, and then carried it into the closet and carefully hung it back up on the rack. She walked back to retrieve the tie and pocket protector, put them away in their rightful places, and then bent down to examine the variety of shoes that Mycroft had lined against the wall underneath his rack of suits. She plucked a pair of polished black oxfords from the collection, and then walked out of the closet and shut the door behind her, tossing the carefully chosen shoes at the foot of Mycroft's bed. 

Merely seconds later, the bathroom door swung open, and she looked up to find Mycroft standing in the doorway, tugging at the waist of the trousers that she had given him.

"I need a belt," He said in a clearly annoyed tone. Anthea opened her mouth to reply, but he spoke up before she had the chance to say anything. 

"I'll get it." He grumbled. He walked over to the wooden dresser against the wall opposite of the closet and opened the top drawer, pulling out a black belt and looping the thin strip of leather around his waist before buckling it just above his zipper. 

"You look nice," Anthea stated, "But just let me..."

 She crossed the room and approached him, reaching up to unbutton the top button of his shirt. He tensed, and then relaxed, waiting for her to finish before adjusting his collar. 

"Not too casual?" He asked as he glided a hand down his abdomen, flattening the material against himself. 

"You look perfect," She reassured, "Hold out your arms." 

Mycroft hesitantly did as she asked, slowly bringing his arms up in front of him. She smiled, and he just gave her a bemused look. She buttoned the cuffs on each arm, and then took a step back to make sure everything was in order. 

"Yes," She said with an approving nod, "You look quite nice, sir." 

"Great to know," He sarcasticly replied, "Now can you leave me to do the rest, or do you plan on attending dinner with me so that you may also feed me my food?" 

Anthea rolled her eyes in amusement, smiling brightly as she sat down on the edge of his bed.

 "If you find it necessary," She teased as she crossed one leg over the other. Mycroft frowned, letting out a huff through his nostrils. Anthea's grin only grew wider. 

"You know I'm just trying to help," She said. 

"I don't need your help." 

"Really?" She implored, "Then tell me where you're meeting him." 

"Casterson's." 

"And what time?" 

"Nine." 

"What do you plan to say to him upon arriving?" 

"Anthea, I've been on a date before. Can you please just leave and let me be?" 

"I know you're capable of handling yourself," She said, "But I am also aware of the fact that you have a talent for coming off as a bit...well, let's see...how do I put this...?" 

"What?" 

She stood up and folded her arms over her chest, giving him a serious look. 

"You can be blunt," She stated, "And you're rude. You don't much care for what others think of you, and...well, it's good for politics, sir, but it will completely ruin a romantic evening if you attempt the same type of tactics." 

Mycroft narrowed his eyes at her. He didn't want to admit it, but she wasn't exactly wrong in her observations. He did have a tendency to act rather caustic, and he knew he could be a bit proud at times... 

"Just promise you'll try," Anthea said with a concerned look. 

"Why should I force myself to enjoy an evening with someone?" 

"You _won't_ be forcing yourself," She replied, "You should have no reason not to enjoy the evening. Gregory is a good man, and you should at least attempt to make a night out of it..." 

Mycroft stared down at the soft, pleading brown eyes looking up at him, and his expression softened. 

"I worry about you, Mr.Holmes." 

"You don't have to worry about me," He said, "I can take care of myself." 

" _But you shouldn't have to,_ " Anthea softly replied, "You shut yourself off from everybody because you think the very thought of allowing yourself to get close to someone is evil, but you and I both know you don't want to grow up alone and secluded. So please just try to enjoy the evening, and don't act too viciously towards the Detective Inspector. At least treat him nicely, and if you truly never want to see him again, then you don't have to."

Mycroft stared at her, then let out a sigh and closed his eyes. 

"Fine," He said after a few seconds of silent contemplation. Anthea's smile returned. She unfolded her arms, and then turned him around and pushed him towards the bathroom. 

"Good," She said, "Now go fix your hair and shave. Or don't shave. The rugged look suits you." 

" _Quit shoving me around_." 

* * *

 The dark mercedez rolled up to the front of the restaurant and parked. The passenger side door swung open, and Mycroft stepped out onto the pavement, slamming the door shut behind him before making his way around the vehicle and walking up to the front entrance of the tall brick building. The car drove off, and he pulled open one of the thick double-doors, stepping onto the premises as a young man approached him. 

"May I take your coat, sir?" 

Mycroft looked over at the younger gentleman and gave him a quick look-over, nodding as he shrugged off his heavy coat and handed it to the kid. 

"Thank you." 

"Of course, sir." 

The young man tottered off, and Mycroft turned his attention to the slightly older host standing behind a small podium. The man looked up at him with soft blue eyes and smiled, welcoming him to the establishment. Mycroft nodded in response, and then swept over the room with his eyes, wondering if Gregory had already arrived. 

"Do you have reservations for tonight, sir?" 

He slowly dragged his gaze back to the host. 

"Holmes," He said, "Party of two. Perhaps my friend has already arrived?" 

The older man looked down at a sheet of paper on the podium, dragging his index finger down a list of names. 

"Ah, yes." 

"So he has?" 

"Just a few minutes ago," The host assured, "Right this way." 

Mycroft watched as he bent down to retrieve a menu, and then followed him through the maze of tables filled with a variety of well-dressed people. They made their way across the room, down a short length of hallway, and then into another large room. As soon as Mycroft made his way onto the threshold, he caught gazes with Greg, who was seated at a small, round table in the middle of the room. 

He'd shaven off his usual stubble, and was wearing a pair of glasses with thin black rims. He had on black trousers with a matching vest-- which looked admittedly quite attractive on him-- and his white dress shirt sleeves were rolled up to just below his elbows. Mycroft took note of the brogues on his feet. 

"Mycroft," The Detective Inspector purred as Mycroft and the host approached. 

"Gregory," Mycroft said with a simple nod. The host placed his menu on the table, pulled his seat out for him, and then walked off after assuring them that a waitress or waiter will attend to them soon.

 _Make sure you tell him he looks nice,_ Anthea's voice echoed. 

Mycroft sat down across from his date and gave him an intrigued look. 

"You look...nice." 

Greg gave him a lopsided grin and sat back in his seat, crossing one leg over the other as he gave his company a pleased look. 

"You too," He said. He then leaned in and crossed his arms on the table. Mycroft watched him closely for a moment, and then turned his attention to the menu, clearing his throat as he tried to ignore the flirtatious look that Greg was giving him. 

"So," Greg began, "Have an eventful day?" 

"Not really," Mycroft replied, "I had to attend a meeting about some matters concerning Australia, and then I sat at my desk and filled out paperwork for the rest of the evening." 

"And you can't diverge any further, because it's all confidential." 

"Correct." 

"You really take your job seriously, don't you?" 

Mycroft looked up from his menu and squinted at him. 

"I have a minor position in the government," He said, "But my role is quite important, and I must make sure to carry out the necessary precautions." 

"Of course," Greg said with a chuckle, "I get it." 

He put his menu down and took his glasses off, folding the thin frames and stuffing them into his shirt pocket. 

"What do you do when you aren't working?" He asked. Before Mycroft had a chance to respond, a young waitress walked up to the table and asked them what they wanted to drink. She listed a small assortment of wine, and then clicked the small button on her pen, held up her small notepad, and patiently waited for either man to speak up. Mycroft looked up at the younger woman, sat his menu down, and then turned towards Greg. 

"Do you like whiskey?" He asked. Greg nodded, so he turned his attention back to the waitress. 

"Bring us each a glass of 1966 Dalmore," He said, "I'll take mine neat, and he will..." 

He turned back to Greg, waiting for his response. 

"I'll have mine the same," Greg said. The waitress nodded, wrote down the order, and then walked off. Mycroft sat back in his seat and took a deep breath, trying to relax. 

"1966 Dalmore?" Greg asked, "That's...that has to be pricey." 

"Nothing I can't handle," Mycroft replied with a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders. After a few minutes of silence passed, he suddenly remembered that Greg had asked him a question, and sat forward in his seat. 

"As for your question," He replied, "I don't get much time off of work. Admittedly, it's one of the reasons I don't often participate in affairs. Relationships don't tend to last long when one travels a lot." 

"I suppose so," Greg said in response, "But I wouldn't know. I've lived in London most of my life." 

"I know." 

Greg looked up at him and raised his brow, chuckling lightly.

 "Of course you do." 

"Well, it's as you said yesterday... I've read up on you." 

"Not everything you need to know is in those files, though." 

Mycroft sat back in his seat and crossed one of his legs over the other, clasping his hands together in his lap. 

"Do enlighten me." 

"Well, for one...you couldn't possibly have known that I smoked more than my fair share of Marijuana when I was seventeen. Or that I had an American boyfriend when I was twenty-one. Or that I thought I was in love with a girl at the age of twenty-four, and decided to get her initials on my left pectoral." 

"Oh, really?" Mycroft asked, smiling subtly. 

"Yeah," Greg nodded, "I've since had them removed, of course, but there's still a bit of discolouration where it used to be." 

"I've never fancied getting any sort of body art," Mycroft admitted. Greg cocked an eyebrow, mildly surprised. 

"Never even thought about it?" 

"Well, yes, when I was younger. Of course. But I was fortunate enough to have a mother that would have absolutely lost her mind if she discovered such a thing on my body. If not, I would have probably made a similar mistake."

"What do you mean?" 

"I'm simply saying I could have done the same. But most of my young adult life was dedicated towards college, and sucking up to potential employers." 

"So that's how you got to where you are today." 

Mycroft chuckled. He could sense the implication by the look on Greg's face. 

"I'm not saying I've slept with people to get to my position in government, if that's what you're implying." 

"You haven't, then?" 

Mycroft wavered. 

"No." 

Greg laughed.

" _Hold on a minute_ ," He said, "That was an awfully long pause. Are you lying to me?" 

"I'm not saying I have," Mycroft said with a mysterious smirk, "And I'm not saying that I haven't." 

"Christ. You're one sneaky bastard." 

"It's simple politics, Gregory." 

The two of them shared another soft laugh, and the waitress reappeared. She sat a pair of small crystal glasses on the table, and then popped open the bottle in her other hand, pouring it into the glasses, and then asking them if they were ready to order their meals. Mycroft looked over at Greg, and Greg nodded, turning his attention to the waitress. 

"Yeah," He said. The young waitress sat the bottle of whiskey on their table, and then pulled her small notepad and pen out from the apron tied around her waist. 

"I think I 'll take an eight ounce steak with a side of fettuccini," Greg said. 

"And how would you like your steak?" 

"Uh...I'll take it rare." 

Both Greg and the waitress then looked to Mycroft, who had picked up his menu, and was currently going over it's contents one more time. Upon finding the two people staring at him, he put the menu down and awkwardly cleared his throat. 

"Just a salad for me," He said, "Italian." 

The waitress nodded as she wrote his order down. 

"It will be out shortly," She said. She stuffed the pen and notepad into her apron, and then picked up the bottle of whiskey, took their menus, and turned to leave. Mycroft watched as she disappeared through a door labeled 'employees only', and then dragged his gaze over to Greg, cocking his head to the side. 

"Is there anything else I should know about you?" He asked. 

"Not that I'm aware of," Greg replied, "What about you? Any past interaction with the mafia? Assassination contracts? Old enemies that might resurface and try to kill me to get revenge on you for having their wife hanged for treason?" 

Mycroft laughed rather heartily on that. 

"Gregory," He said with a soft chuckle, "I do believe you've mistaken me for the protagonist of a cliché spy film." 

"How could I tell the difference?" Greg asked with a shrug, "Everything about you is so secretive. For all I know, you're married to the ruler of Russia, and you've been assigned to build yourself a career in the British government so that you can get close enough to the queen to kill her and assume control of Britain as a totalitarian Russian dictator." 

Mycroft picked up his glass of scotch and took a sip. 

"You've got quite an imagination," He said.

"But you get my point, right?"

"Yes," He said as he carefully sat the glass back on the table, "I get your point." 

"Can you tell me, then?" 

"Tell you what?" 

"What you do for a living?" 

"No." 

"Why?" 

"Because I just can't. I assume a very important position in the British government, but I'm not allowed to diverge on the subject." 

"Fine..." Greg said with a disappointed sigh. 

"You know," Mycroft said as he furrowed his brow and narrowed his eyes, "You're so adamant on finding out, how do I know _you_ aren't the spy here?" 

Greg grinned, relieved to see that Mycroft was acting more comfortably around him. He stared at the older Holmes for a moment, and then licked his lips, looking down at the small glass full of amber-coloured liquid in front of him. He picked the glass up, sniffed it, and then took a sip. 

"Mm," His face immediately lit up, "This is fantastic." 

Mycroft nodded in agreement. 

"It is a magnificent selection," He said, "Although 1990 wasn't a particularly bad year, either." 

"Speaking of which," Greg spoke up, "When _is_ your birthday?"


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You know," The DI said after a beat, "You're pretty damn irresistible when you smile."

As soon as Greg stepped out of the building, he was assaulted by the cold punch of a strong wind. He let out an involuntary gasp and flinched away from the sudden attack, pulling his coat closed and zipping it up to his neck before he popped the collar. He squinted against the harsh wind and grunted in disagreement, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he inwardly groaned at the unexpected rush of rain that was suddenly showering from the sky.

"Bloody weather."

Mycroft followed him out of the building with a grin, chuckling in amusement as he reached into his coat to retrieve his gloves.

"Cold, detective?" 

Greg looked over to find Mycroft giving him a slightly amused look. He opened his mouth to say something smart in response, but as soon as he looked over at the amber-haired individual next to him, he stopped short. His own lips curled into a grin, and a hearty chuckle escaped. Mycroft studied him for a moment, and then cocked his head to the side and raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

"What?" He asked, clearly not aware of the reason behind Greg's sudden laughter. Greg continued to stare at him, marveling the soft smile that seemed foreign to the slightly taller man's expression. 

"You know," The DI said after a beat, "You're pretty damn irresistible when you smile."

Mycroft blinked. He stood there and stared back with a blank expression on his face, as if he wasn't capable of registering what his date had said to him. Greg knew he had heard him, though, because his face turned bright red. And a few drawn-out seconds later, the older Holmes finally responded with a curt nod and a croaked "right" before deliberately diverting his gaze and immediately changing the subject.

"Do you need me to call for a car to take you home?" Mycroft abruptly blurted, trying to force his burning face to cooperate. Greg watched his smile curl into a frustrated frown, but it wasn't disheartening, because the man's reaction was admittedly kind of cute; He wasn't used to being flirted with, and so he responded to any form of flirtation just like an inexperienced teenager. It gave the commonly taught, hard-nosed individual a hint of childish innocence.

"Pretty sure I'm fine," Greg said after a moment of thought, "I only had one glass."

"Yes," Mycroft said, "But are you sure your vehicle will start? I'd hate for you to end up walking again in this dreadful weather."

"I'll be fine, I've nicked a mate's car for the evening."

The DI reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, flipping the lid open and plucking the last white stick from the container. He stuck the orange nib between his lips, stuffed the empty box back into it's rightful place, and then procured a lighter. Mycroft watched as he ignited the lighter with his thumb, creating a small flame that receded almost as quickly as it had appeared.

"Right," Mycroft absent-mindedly trailed on, "Good."

Greg stole a glance up at him, and then returned his attention to the task at hand. He flicked his thumb against the small mechanism that was supposed to spark a flame, but nothing happened. His jaw set, and he slumped in irritation. Trying to conjure the small flame one more time, he turned around so that he was facing the front wall of the building, cupped his free hand over the lighter to shield it from any wind, and then flicked it again. Luckily, his technique worked. The small flame reappeared, and Greg hastily sucked in on his cigarette filter, desperately hoping the tip of the cigarette would start burning before another bitter wind had the chance to steal away the wavering light.

"There we--"

Before he even had a chance to put his lighter back into his pocket, an unruly flurry of wind drove into his side, sending a wave of unexpected chills through him. He hugged himself, made an unsettled noise, and then shook himself.

"Allow me to walk you to your vehicle before you freeze to death," Mycroft replied. When Greg looked up at him, he found that the sheepish smile had reappeared. He smiled in response, and then took the lead, glad that the rain had stopped nearly as fast as it had started.

 "Oh," Greg said as he pulled his cigarette out of his mouth and held it at his side, "Thanks for giving Anderson back, by the way."

"I've no idea what your talking about," Mycroft replied, feigning ignorance as he stuffed his hands into his coat pockets. Greg spun around to face him, but continued to walk backwards. He took another drag of his cigarette.

"Well, there's no bleedin' way the idiot got back into Scotland Yard on his own. And last I heard, Sherlock said he was freelance working for you."

Mycroft shrugged innocently.

"I may have pulled some strings..." He said, "But for good cause. Keep in mind, Detective Inspector, I don't often give favours. But Anderson was a well-practiced forensics analyst. My brother calls him an idiot-- and he is, in comparison to Sherlock. But otherwise, he is rather proficient in his work."

"Oh, well all the--"

Before the silver-haired Detective had a chance to finish speaking, he stepped on a thin strip of ice. His feet slipped from underneath him as he flailed his arms in distress. Mycroft pulled his hands from his pockets and leapt forward, grabbing him by the lapels of his coat before he fell. The older Holmes nearly fell with him, but was quick to regain his balance, using his weight to pull Greg upright again.

"Are you alright?" He asked.

"Yeah, just--"

One of the DI's feet slipped again, and he ended up falling straight into Mycroft, who was caught off guard by the sudden closeness, but still didn't hesitate to wrap his arms around the man and help him straighten out again. He stepped back to make sure they were clear of the hazardous slab of ice, firmly took hold of Greg's shoulders, and then took amother step back to gave his clumsy acquaintance a qucik scan with his eyes.

"Gregory?"

"Yes?" Greg said as he looked up to meet gazes with the bold blie eyes glued to him.

"Are you capable of standing without my assistance, now?"

"I dunno," Greg replied with an impish grin, "I kinda like having yer arms around me."

Mycroft gave him an unamused look, dropping his arms back to his sides.

"Did you do that on purpose?" He asked, feeling the familiar burn of redness rising to his cheeks again. Greg shrugged. He reached up, pulled his cigarette from between his lips, and then spun around to continue towards his car.

"At least my fag survived," He said as he held up the unscathed stick of tobacco . Mycroft rolled his eyes, failing to stifle the chuckle that escaped from his thin lips. His shook his head in beguilement, following the silver-haired jester. The Detective Inspector carefully stepped over the patch of ice and stuck his cigarette into his mouth, turning to hold his hand out for the older Holmes.

"Careful, mate."

"Right," Mycroft said as he took Greg's hand and stepped over the patch of ice, "Thank you."

Greg nodded, dropping his hand back to his side, and then stepping aside and gesturing for him to lead the way. Mycroft stuffed his hands into his coat pockets, and then walked past him.

"Y'know," Greg said as they continued onward, "That gives me an idea."

Mycroft looked over at him and raised in inquisitive eyebrow.

"We should go ice skating," Greg chuckled, "You and me."

Mycroft snorted.

"What?" Greg replied, "It would be fun."

"You and I apparently have very different definitions of the word 'Fun'."

"Oh, right. And I'm sure you'd rather be sitting around and doing paperwork."

"Don't be daft. I do  have a life outside of the government."

"Oh, really? And what is that?"

"If you must know...I enjoy poker. I also find amusement in horse races, along with the occasional visit to my parent's cottage."

"Really? You don't seem the poker type."

"I don't particularly enjoy the actual game," Mycroft admitted, "But I do enjoy outsmarting the people playing against me. And I suppose the satisfaction of stealing their money is an added benefit."

"You're an arse," Greg said jokingly as he finished off his cigarette, "I'll have to play you some time."

Mycroft shrugged, and a gust of wind attacked them from behind. The older Holmes reflexively flinched away, hugging himself as the cold air assaulted the back of his neck and head. Greg flicked his cigarette aside and gave the slightly older man a concerned look.

" _You've_ got a ride, right?"

Mycroft nodded curtly, flipping his collar up.

"I'll call my valet."

"Oh. Wouldn't it be easier for me to drive you home?"

"I'd hate to cause you the trouble. And besides, it won't take long."

"You just don't want me to know where you live," Greg teased. He smiled at Mycroft, and Mycroft smiled back, chuckling lightly as he shook his head. He followed the Detective Inspector around the car, and then grabbed the driver's side door, pulled it open, and gestured the silver-haired man inside. Instead of climbing into the vehicle, however, Greg shut the door again. He turned to face the baffled Holmes, looked straight into his eyes, and then dragged his gaze down to the thin, pale lips just a few inches below. Before Mycroft had a chance to react, Greg brought a hand up and slid it around the nape of his neck, pulling him forward and planting a firm kiss on his lips.

The unsuspecting Mycroft didn't know what to do at first-- He was surprised by the sudden gesture. He tensed, widened his eyes a bit, and simply stood there until the man connected to him started to pull away. Before Greg's mouth disconnected, Mycroft's body decided to move on it's own, and without thinking, he quickly stepped forward to reconnect the gap between them. He grabbed Greg by his shoulders, slightly tilted his head, and then returned the kiss.

When he pulled away merely seconds later, he found Greg looking at him with a raised brow. The silver-haired detective grinned widely, and he suddenly felt his face reddening from embarrassment. He cursed himself for giving in to the DI's charm.

"I thought so," Greg smugly replied.

"You thought what?" Mycroft asked, furrowing his brow in confusion. Greg simply shrugged, reaching for the nearby door handle. He popped open the front door, plopped down on the worn front seat, and then looked up at Mucroft.

"What did you mean?" Mycroft asked, annoyed that he couldn't read the mischievous Detective's thoughts. He reflexively glanced away as a stranger walked past on the opposite side of the road, but he immediately returned his attention to Greg.

"I was just making sure," Greg replied.

"Making sure of what?"

"Making sure you were actually interested."

Mycroft fell silent as sudden realization hit. He felt his cheeks burning again, and sheepishly dropped his head.

"Ah."

An awkward silence took over, and then Greg cleared his throat, gaining the attention of his date. When Mycroft looked down at him, he swung his feet into the car and gestured towards the passenger side.

"Get in," He said, "I'll drive you home."

Mycroft swept his gaze over the short, light blue vehicle. He shoved his hands into his coat pockets and gave Greg an unsure look.

"There really is no need to..."  
  
"I don't mind. And besides, I'd prefer it to leaving you out in the bleeding cold."  
  
The older Holmes took a moment to mull it over, and then nodded. Greg pulled the door shut. Mycroft carefully walked around to the other side, and then pulled the passenger door open, climbing in, and then pulling the door shut.  
  
"So where am I taking you?" Greg asked as he reached into his coat pocket. He pulled a set of keys out, leaned forward, jammed them into the ignition, and then twisted them. The engine revved to life, and he turned his attention to Mycroft.  
  
"You'll have to drop me off at the Gatwick airport," Mycroft said, "Because my London estate is up in Northumberland, and unless you fancy a five-hour drive..."  
  
"Northumberland?" Greg asked, caught off guard by the new information.

"I told you I can call my valet," Mycroft replied.  
  
"No," Greg said as he put the car into gear, "Gatwick's only about a thirty minute drive from here. I can take you."  
  
"Are you sure? Either way, I've a private jet set to fly me home."  
  
"Yeah. I don't need to be at The Yard until late evening tomorrow, anyway."  
  
He checked his side mirror, and then stepped on the gas. The car began to slowly roll down the road, and Mycroft sat back, pulling his seatbelt across his chest and buckling it into the buckle attached to his seat. He relaxed, let out a soft sigh, and then looked over at the man seated next to him.  
  
"If my memory serves, "He said, "You've got a press conference to attend tomorrow, do you not?"  
  
"That's right," Greg replied with a quick glance towards him, "How'd you know?"  
  
"I was watching the report this morning," Mycroft explained, "I don't usually find interest in the news, but I do occasionally want to make sure my brother hasn't dredged up any negative headlines."  
  
"Ah. So you know about the case, then?"  
  
"Yes. It caught my attention, and I decided to read up on it when I had spare time. It's quite an intriguing situation."  
  
"It's bloody irritating."  
  
"I assume you've got Sherlock working with you? It does seem like something my brother would find interest in."  
  
"Oh yeah," Greg chuckled sardonically, "He's having a bloody field day."  
  


* * *

 Mycroft stared absent-mindedly at the pile of stapled paperwork before him. Instead of reading over the details and filling out the required portions, he just sat there, staring into space as his mind ventured elsewhere. He wasn't prone to daydreaming at work, but all he could think about was the night before- how Greg's laugh sounded, how Greg's lips felt...

"Sir?" 

Anthea's voice managed to drag him out of the reminiscence as she walked into the room. He looked down at the the untouched pile of papers sitting on the desk in front of  him, and then slowly dragged his gaze up to the woman standing in his doorway. She gave him a quizzical look and stepped into the threshold.

"Are you okay, sir?"

"Yes," Mycroft cleared his throat, "Yes, I'm quite fine. What do you need?"

"You looked a bit worried."

"I said I'm fine," Mycroft insisted. He shifted in his chair, folding one leg over the other and putting his hands in his lap. He cocked his head to the side and raised an eyebrow.

"Well?"

"Oh," Anthea said, "I've got those papers you asked for."

Without waiting for a reply, the well-dressed brunette took a step forward, carefully sitting the pile of files on the edge of Mycroft's desk. He leaned forward, picked up the top sheet, and then sat back and held it up to examine it. After reading it over, he put it down on the pile of unfinished paperwork he had been staring at all morning, and then looked up to give his assistant a perplexed look.

"When did I ask for these?" He inquired, clearly confused by the entire situation. He knew Sherlock often zoned out and talked to himself, but surely he himself wasn't adopting that uncanny behaviour.

"You called me..." Anthea said with a tone of suspicion, "And asked if I could acquire them for you by this hour..."

"When?"

"Fifteen past seven, I believe. Are you sure you're alright, Mr. Holmes?"

Mycroft stared at her for a lingering moment. He didn't really know how to respond.

_Was he alright?  
_

"I think I have a fever," Was his only explanation. And it felt like maybe he was right, because his face felt abnormally warm, and his stomach wouldn't quit fluttering.


End file.
